Friday, 30 April 2010
Friday, 23 April 2010
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Last month, I finally got around to seeing Avatar, which has been pegged as a benchmark film by many, and an apparent "must-see" for any film enthusiast. As a co-owner of a rather obese DVD collection, I felt it necessary that I should cast judgement on it.
Now let me first say that I didn't see it in 3D, so perhaps I cannot comment fully on the quality of the visual effects. But even on a fairly low-budget high-res screen it looked pretty damned good. Vibrant, detailed, and just as awe-inspiring as I'd heard.
Now, with regards to the story. This is an area that seems to have been subject to heavy criticism for the similarities to other films or classic tales, such as Dances with Wolves, or even Pochahontas. (I should note that I haven't seen either of these films shamefully enough so I cannot personally comment on the story parallels. Avatar however, IS fairly contrived and tends to stretch the imagination by the first half hour alone. The first time the word "unobtainium" was uttered, both my partner and I scoffed, how ridiculous and unimaginative. We've since found out that this is an actual substance, so we were soon silenced.
As for the rest? Simply put, very simple. But that, for me, did not take away from the experience. Perhaps I would have thought differently had I seen the films that are meant to have already explored these themes on the same line of a story. But I haven't. Therefore I could just sit back and actually get swept up in what I think was just a an escapist fantasy story. No harm in that.
I am interested however, to see where film is going to go next. Avatar utilised 3D technology, animation, and so many other technical fireworks at their disposal I couldn't even think of them, let alone list or spell them. Just got me thinking how this can be built upon - CAN it be built upon? I'm starting to wonder if there is going to be a point when there is nothing else left to explore in this medium and we just end up being spoon-fed old films that have been reinvented on a big budget, techo-scale.
Can just see it now, Agent Higgins of the Linguo tribe takes a youngling Roughian orphan under his wing and teaches her the ways of his kind. My Fair Lady for future generations. A unique story that touches on issues that have never been....oh. Hang on..
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Friday, 19 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
Friday, 12 March 2010
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Torture Garden Valentine's Ball 2010 - Mollie reviews
My fourth experience of the world renowned fetish club fell managed to coincide with one of the holidays that I usually choose to ignore on account of it seems a bit odd to make a point of lavishing love on the same day as everyone else. Torture Garden however, is different. It's more a case of lavishing love on oneself, and pretty much anyone that you'd like to play with. And this was Mollie's first outing where she could play.
Despite a few hiccups with outfitting, a recent health complaint left me unable to teeter in my usual choice of stilettos, my companions and I managed to get ourselves on our way by 11pm, aiming for a midnight arrival, tres stylish, I feel.
The venue remains the same as the last two events I attended. SeOne just off London Bridge, a huge clubbing location, is pretty much perfect for the fetish underworld to stage their frolics at. A mix of larger rooms, smaller alcoves and dungeon-like spaces lend themselves well to the layout of TG, high ceilings in the ballroom in particular had wonderful scope for decoration – sumptuous red curtains, boudoir décor and mandatory poles made this room pretty much our stop point.
But enough about the interior. We were there to play.
My companion, Mr M and Susie looked delicious, and I felt sufficiently vampish strutting around beside them. Again, so many beautiful outfits, beautiful people. The atmosphere was different to any other TG I've been to, there certainly was an amorous touch to the air. As well as your usual domme/dom and submissives indulging in their own brand of BDSM, there were also people observing them, watching their writhing bodies and contorting faces. As we took the weight off our feet in one of the comfortable seating areas, Mr M and myself found ourselves entranced by a strikingly beautiful domme (encased in a stunning cream corset), encouraging her devoted sub to go down on her. As he teased at her thighs with his tongue, her lips parted and suddenly, there was nobody else around, just those two. And us watching. Mr M squeezed my thigh, perhaps affectionately, perhaps in a statement of his dominance over me, allowing me to enjoy the spectacle. There was a wonderful moment where the bass of the music pulsed through the furniture and the corseted lady cried out into the night, the vibes proving to be just what she needed to tip her over the edge.
I think this was the point that we decided it was necessary to play. No more a perfect place for this than the Arabian Nights room, where there was all sorts of apparatus and equipment, sure to keep us salivating at the options. After watching an incredibly magnetic performance where a dancer moved with a live snake, we settled to watch a scene. A hot as hell submissive, clad in red latex, clung to an A-frame, biting her lip in tortured pleasure as her companions spanked her, with a variety of severity and implements.
Of course, is was inevitable that just watching wasn't enough for me anymore, so I requested that Mr M let me approach. Upon his granting, I tentatively asked red latex if she'd allow me to kiss her. This was my first time entering somebody elses scene, so I was very prepared to be knocked back. However, she responded by snaking a hand behind my neck and kissing me passionately. Hell. It was my single hottest moment at a fetish club so far. Until Mr M tugged me away (much to my protests) and positioned me on the opposite side of the frame. I was encouraged to reignite the passionate clinch that I had just been dragged from, but this time I was to receive some attention of my own. So while I had the absolute pleasure of becoming acquainted with a gorgeous woman, I was also receiving a hard spanking from an increasingly excited Mr M.
At one point I remember pausing, only to find fingertips teasing me into another clinch, this time with the corseted lady we had watched reached climax earlier. She was equally a wonderful kissing partner, soft, sensual and her scent travelling straight down my torso settling in my thighs.
This continued for around five or so minutes until red latex was lead away by her companion. Before we parted, she introduced herself as J. My exchanged cheek-kisses and went on our way. Even now, writing this back, I feel that familiar warmth growing inside me. My first play at TG involving other women was really quite something. I believe that it served to open my mind, and Mr M's too.
The rest of our evening played out in the ballroom, where we acquired a table and just observed. Which is nothing to be sniffed at when you're at such a place. There's so much to see, to do, to taste, to feel.
I just have an inkling that next time, there'll be a lot more feeling going on.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
I remember my first bra. My Mum bought it for me from our local Friday market after relentless nagging from me, having noticed that pretty much all the girls in PE at school now wore bras. I didn't have any friends at school, and only really spoke to one or two people of the same sex, so when Mum came home brandishing a 30AA bra, I was mortified to discover that it was still too big. I didn't know who to talk to, so I just wore it anyway, and suffered the jokes in the girls changing rooms. I pretty much remained at this size throughout puberty, my hips grew, I got body hair, got hormonal at the stupid things and discovered my clitoris.
But my breasts? They weren't budging. I didn't have my first period until nearly the age of 17 as well, to add insult to injury. Boys only noticed the girls that strained the buttons of their school shirts like bulging water balloons in a hankie. Bee stings weren't attractive. Though I used to affectionately refer to mine as "the eggs", being pale skinned as it was, I also had really pale nipples. It was just hideous. The first time I was ever "intimate" with a male, I remember the look of pure disappointment on his face. Like a kid wanting to get a GI Joe for Christmas and receiving a pair of Barney socks.
But anyway, once my periods got going I did actually manage to grow a somewhat acceptable pair of tits as far as general society goes. At a steady B-C cup throughout my late teens and early twenties, I found bra-buying a hassle-free concept, guys seemed content with the size I was, and I thought my days of mammary-related anguish were over.
Enter the unexplained, but probably hormonal, weight gain. It went on my hips and my breasts, like a second wave of puberty. Is that even remotely possible? Got myself measured just before Christmas of 2009, and anyone who knows me will know that I've been screeching my size from the rooptops like a horny teenager shouting that he's just laid the class whore.
32DD. Oh yes, they're all mine, and I can't stop looking at them/playing with them/admiring them in all manner of tops.
But with the joy, comes pain. Pain. Apparently, most shops expect women with this size (a slimmer torso but fuller breasts) to have implants, therefore rich enough to shell out for custom sized bras, or designer labels that cater for such women.
In Primark at the weekend, and I mean a HUGE Primark, among the scores of lovely and affordable lingerie, I found ONE bra in my size. One. Same story in other high street stores that generally are accepted to be pocket-friendly on frugal ladies like myself. My issue is this: not all girls with smaller band sizes but fuller cup sizes are silicon-toting bikini adorning goddesses with zero fat on them. I can't explain my body size... narrow ribs and shoulders... then just BREASTS, bit of a curvy belly, and ARSE. That's it. That's my shape.
Doesn't mean however that I am happy to either pay extortionate amounts to house my happy breasticles. Or settle for plain over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder style flouncies.
La Senza have the right idea - their DD+ range starts at the lower end of the band size scale, and still offer sexy lingerie that doesn't go too mad on price.
But I really would like to see the uber pocketfriendly shops having a bit more consideration for us girls that have boobs. REAL ones, not fake.
Now please excuse me while I go play with them some more.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Inevitably there'll be holier-than-thou types that berate her, and comment that depression seems to just be 'fashion' etc, these days. Believe me, I've heard it all over the years, and while they never stop irking me, I've come to expect that attitude.
But this comment from Margaret Drabble (Guardian) really rattled my cage.
"Marian Keyes, in speaking out about her current desperate state, is already moving on. She is a writer and she will probably write her way out of it. That's what writers do."
To use her own ludicrous logic, there are no words to describe this woman's ignorance. Someone already commented on the piece but I will reiterate it here - Sylvia Plath did well to write herself out of depression, didn't she? Yes, she put out some food for the family then put her head in the oven.
She also puts the current openness of depression sufferers down to fashion. Really? Audicity, much? I think you'll find that most people feel able to be open now because of the general acceptance level going up - NOT because there is a bandwagon to jump on. And even if there were, who the hell is Drabble to take away a chance for depressive people to feel better?
And anyway, anyone who has suffered with any form of mental illness, will tell you that there aren't words to describe how desperate the feelings can get sometimes. It's as simple as that, there ARE no words. And if it were that simple to get over, there'd be a very rich person sitting on a basic and powerful cure.
It just angers me that in a world that popularizes all sorts of cultures, a rambling, knowledge-less journalist would cheapen the chance that any sufferer takes to feel better.
I've never been a fan of Marian Keyes' books - but I feel thorough pity and empathy for her. Hope she's back in business soon.
Guardian article: HERE
Marian Keyes' blog posting: HERE